


Consciousness-Raising

by white_hart



Category: Chalet School - Elinor M. Brent-Dyer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:46:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_hart/pseuds/white_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addressing an aspect of the books that *really* bugs me!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consciousness-Raising

Con Maynard tucked her book into her handbag and stood up as the bus approached her stop. Once in the street, she huddled deeper into her coat against the foggy November night – strangely, this damp chill seemed to affect her more than the dry but far colder weather of Switzerland, where she had spent her teens – as she walked the few hundred yards from the bus stop to the big Victorian house where she rented the basement flat; two rooms, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen, but she had her own front door and had even managed to grow geraniums in pots at the bottom of the basement steps last summer.

Closing the front door behind her, she shed coat and beret and picked up the post. She smiled to see a letter with a Swiss postmark, addressed in the familiar handwriting of her elder – by half an hour – sister Len, now married to a doctor at the great Sanatorium where their father was Head and teaching modern languages at an English girls’ school nearby, but as she scanned her sister’s news the smile turned to a frown. Tossing the letter aside, she switched on the radio and set the kettle on the gas before addressing the other letters, which proved to be from other friends from school and university, full of chatty news and good humour. She gave a little sigh as she sat down with her tea. Letters were no substitute for being with her friends, and the Oxford which had been such a jolly place when she was studying seemed rather different now. Most of her friends had moved away when they graduated, returning home as Len had done or taking up jobs elsewhere, but Con had stayed. Having lived in Switzerland since she was ten she knew nowhere else in England, and despite her fluent French and German she knew that she was unlikely to make a career in journalism anywhere other than an English-speaking country. The junior reporter’s job on the local paper had seemed like the perfect place to begin. And she did love her flat; having grown up in a long family and spent her schooldays at boarding-school before joining the university having a place of her own was a luxury she didn’t think she’d ever get used to. Only, she thought regretfully, it would be nice sometimes to have someone to talk to, especially when she was in the sort of muddle that Len’s news had left her in.

However, Con was not given to self-pity – her early training had sat very heavily on anything of that kind – so she gave herself a shake and picked up a long letter from Ricki Fry, a schoolfriend who had graduated from the School of Oriental and African Studies and was now following in her father’s footsteps as an expert on Chinese porcelains. And after all, tomorrow she was having lunch with a very old and dear friend, and if there was anyone you could talk to when you were in a muddle it was her!

*** 

The next day, Con reached the agreed coffee shop before her lunch companion, and was settled at a table by the window sipping coffee and watching the passers-by when the door opened to admit a tall, slender young woman with curly fair hair and bright, intelligent blue eyes. She smiled radiantly when she spotted Con and made a bee-line for the table.

“Mary-Lou!” exclaimed Con. “How simply marvellous to see you again! It’s been _years_!”

Mary-Lou laughed. “Hello yourself, young Con! Yes, it must be two years now; I was in Greece for eighteen months, and before that I had my hands full looking after Verity’s young Lucy-Anne when Roger was born, and simply didn’t have a minute to fly up to Oxford. I’ll have tea, please” – this to the waitress – “and have you ordered food, Con? No? Just the tea now, please, then. Anyway” – turning back to Con – “how is the intrepid young reporter?”

Con sighed. “It’s not quite as I imagined”, she confessed. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to be writing about – oh, murders, and car smashes, for instance – but all they’ll let a girl write about is cooking and sewing, or kids who’ve won competition prizes! Not that there seems to be terribly much of news in Oxford anyhow, it’s all stuffy council meetings and they just go on and on about money, but I don’t even get a sniff of that!”

Mary-Lou smiled sympathetically. “I see. So Vicki Vale you’re not?”

“And”, added Con, “it’s no use saying that this is what happens when you work for a provincial, because none of the girls from college who applied to the big national dailies got jobs – only the boys did. Emma and Kate are in the same position I am. And I don’t know that it’ll get any better. There’s only one older woman there, and she seems happy writing about household hints and the Recipe Corner!”

“Still”, said Mary-Lou sensibly, “you never meant to do journalism forever, did you? I thought your ambition was always to write books?”

“Ye-es”, replied Con, “but there I don’t know where to start. When I was little I mostly wrote fairy-stories, but they were a bit babyish. And I don’t think I want to write books for girls like Mother does. But I don’t think I know enough about life to write proper novels, either, not ones that would be interesting.”

At that point the waitress returned to bring Mary-Lou’s tea and take their orders for lunch, and the thread of the conversation was lost. They talked for a little while about the archaeological expedition to Greece that Mary-Lou had spent the last eighteen months on, and then that young lady demanded of Con, “So what’s the hanes from the Görnetz Platz, then? Everyone well? The School hasn’t burnt down?”

Con laughed. “Felicity told me some of the Middles managed to set light to the curtains in their common-room last term, but thankfully the fire didn’t spread. She sounded terribly grown-up and perfectly when she was telling me, which is some cheek when I think of the demon she was in her day!”

Mary-Lou chuckled. “Weren’t we all? There’s something about girls of thirteen and fourteen. How about the others?”

“Well, Mother and Father are very well, and so are the babies. Stephen’s getting married next summer, had you heard? And Margot’s specialising in tropical medicine this year as that’ll be of most use to her in the future. She’s going to the Order as a lay worker next summer, with a view to entering as a postulant after a year if they’ll take her. I’m surprised – a little – that she’s stuck with that, but she seems as keen as ever.”

“Margot has grown up a lot”, agreed Mary-Lou, who had herself played no small part in that growing up. “What about Len? Is she still teaching at St Hilda’s?”

“She is! She’s vowed not to teach at the Chalet School until Phil and her crowd have left, and there’s not much choice as long as Reg is at the San. But…” Con’s voice trailed off.

“But?” Mary-Lou prompted.

“I had a letter from her yesterday. She and Reg are expecting a baby in June. Oh, I know it’s wonderful news, and I should be happy for her, but I can’t help thinking – she always wanted to teach, from when we three were quite small. And then she got married the summer we graduated, and I was so pleased that even then she didn’t have to give that up – but now she’ll have to, won’t she?”

Mary-Lou looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, you know. Times are changing. As you say, even a married teacher is a new thing – although you must remember Biddy Courvoisier doing it before the twins came along? But I wouldn’t be too surprised if Len went back to teaching – maybe not straight away, but when her children are at school. Running a house isn’t a full-time job any more, after all; we have so many wonderful labour-saving devices. And I can think of others who’ve done it; Verity still gives some music lessons, although not as many as she did. And what about your own mother? Joey’s career as a writer has never suffered because of her family.”

“That’s true”, Con agreed. “All the same, what about all the girls who’ve given up their careers? Julie Lucy was going to be a _barrister_ , and she ended up a housemaster’s wife instead. And Daisy and Laurie Rosomon were _both_ doctors, so why did it have to be her who gave up her career instead of him?”

“Your English, my child! If the Abbess were here, she’d have a fit! All the same, you’re right; it _isn’t_ fair, and although things _are_ changing, it’s awfully slow.”

There was something in the older woman’s voice that made Con glance at her curiously. “Mary-Lou – _you’re_ still not married.”

Mary-Lou smiled. “No, I’m not. And I may never be, however many eligible young doctors your mother produces when I visit Freudesheim. I gave this a lot of thought, years ago, back when Dad died and I knew that as long as Mother was still with us my first duty was to look after her – and Verity, of course, although she settled things her own way – and that as long as I had that responsibility, I could never have the career I chose?Of course, I was terribly cut up when Mother died – I wouldn’t be human if I hadn’t been! – but once I stopped grieving so hard I realised that it was for the best, really. She was at peace, and no longer in pain, and I was free to do what I’d always longed to do. And I’d had a lot of time to think, and I realised that doing that meant I couldn’t have any ties of that kind, because it just wouldn’t be _fair_ to a husband to go waltzing off for months on end, and if I had children I just couldn’t, of course! I had to make a choice, and – well, here I am, back from Greece, still footloose and fancy-free and rapidly approaching thirty. If I ever _do_ settle down, it will be when I’m too old to go gadding about any more; and too old for children, too, I’ll warrant. Len is luckier than I, because at least she has a shot at having everything.”

Con looked solemn. “I’m sorry, Mary-Lou. It’s just so _unfair_!”

“I’m mostly used to it. I made the decision years ago; and I always said I would change my mind if I met the _right_ man. And, you know, Con” looking brightly at the other woman “if you feel as strongly as I think you do about this, there’s something you can do.”

Con looked blank. “How do you mean?”

“Well, my lamb, isn’t it said that the pen is mightier than the sword? As I said, things _are_ changing, but the more people understand the issues and think about then the faster it’ll happen. If you want to write novels, why not look at your life, and the lives of your sisters and your friends, and write about what it’s _really_ like to be a young woman now?If you wrote books that older girls could enjoy as well then that might help others to think about their choices, too.”

Enlightenment dawned in Con’s face. “Mary-Lou! You _genius_!” And, as Mary-Lou later said, if she hadn’t grabbed Con’s sleeve she would have dashed out of the café, abandoning her half-eaten sandwich, as wrapped up in this new story idea as she had ever been in the fairy-stories she had written as a schoolgirl.

*** 

Two years later, Mary-Lou Trelawny was surprised to receive a fat parcel bearing the name of a London publisher on the cover. Opening it, she discovered a book: _Just A Girl_ , by Constance Maynard, hailed by reviewers as a major new literary talent. There was also a letter from Con.

_Dear Mary-Lou_

_I hope you enjoy the book! I think Mother is a little shocked at my ‘feminist sentiments’ – don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you gave me the inspiration!_

_Many thanks and much love_

_Con._


End file.
